The Anniversary That Wasn't
3 min read · Anonymous · Premium
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The doorbell rang at 2:17 on a Tuesday. I wasn't expecting anything, but when I opened the door, a young man in a green vest was stacking brown paper bags on my porch like he was building a fort. Five bags. Then six. Then a cardboard box.
"Instacart," he said, handing me a receipt. "Have a good one."
I stared at the pile. I hadn't ordered groceries. Matt handles the shopping, and he was at work. I checked the receipt: forty-seven items, total $214.56. Delivered to 1427 Maple Lane. That was my house. But the name on the order was Matt's.
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